


Will Graham's Very Own End Game

by JonathansNightFlight



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Breaking Will, Building Will, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-Typical suicidal ideation, Escalates quickly, Hannibal is a Cannibal, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Malnutrition, Masturbation, Mindfuck, Murder Husbands, Obsessive Will, Pining, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Rough Sex, Scarification, Self-Destruction, Self-emotional hurt, Slow Burn, Violent Sex, Wild Ride
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-12
Updated: 2016-10-06
Packaged: 2018-08-14 14:03:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8016871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JonathansNightFlight/pseuds/JonathansNightFlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the only thing that can kill me is myself, says Hannibal in Will’s voice</p><p>Will wakes up after the Fall. He wasn't supposed to. To deal with surviving, he strikes up a bargain with his own mind. This is Will Graham's End Game, and it is his and his alone. No matter who else might have come back inside of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. He feels it in his lungs

**the only thing that can kill me is myself** , says Hannibal in Will’s voice

 

He can hear the words in his windpipe. The intrusion is complete; Will, more often than not, likes to visualise it as rot. Not the fuzzy mould that slowly settles like dust on a neglected piece of fruit, but the dark core of rot that takes over an orange, unknowingly invaded by a foreign body, a worm or worse, a colony of bacteria invisible to the human eye, slithering in through an unattended wound.

 

Will brings his hand to his temple and squeezes - momentarily surprised when his skull doesn’t give like the sappy skin of a festering sanguine orange. He can almost taste his brain nowadays, sickly sweet and tangy. The self-denunciation that comes with these morose thoughts brings serenity.

 

* * *

 

 

He blinks and once more he is dissecting himself, displayed on an operatic table. Inaccurate - the bright cold lights, the smells, the granite floor, they are all those of an autopsy room.But the table on which Will’s body lays is not the familiar steel slab. It is wooden, dark; a dinner table.

 

Will’s chest cavity is open in invitation, ribs cracked and sticking out, like the tips of a stag’s antlers. Will doesn’t ever look inside. His fingers are moving as if by themselves. His moves light and efficient as he washes the hair of his own corpse. The water runs murky, then pink and finally clean. He focuses on how the feel of the wet strands, on the lax give of the scalp. Repetitive motions that gradually turn harsh, his fingers kneading through, harder and harder, until he is clutching handfuls of hair and pulls, making the lifeless neck bend backwards. Kneeling, mouth watering, he pushes his lips against the hair, sucking away the dark moisture. He needs to taste Will in it, but the smell of death is overpowering, with just a faint undertone of saccharine rot. Abruptly straightening his knees, he let’s go and the heavy curls make a slick thud they connect with wet surface. Will’s face feels tight. He touches his lips where the memory of the hair tickles, and he can read Hannibal’s smile on them.

 

* * *

 

 

Awake; for a while now, this has not been a certainty for Will Graham. Nowadays it takes the form of a question, a question that stopped being as urgent as it once had been. He lets the minutes trickle by. Feels the scratch of the pillowcase against scar tissue, the cooling pools of sweat on his back, on the back of his thighs. He runs his tongue over his teeth, softly first then harder, and he feels dehydration cracking his lips. Bleary eyes twitching, he concedes that yes, he is probably awake.

 

There is no morning routine for Will Graham. There hasn’t been a routine since their fall. It is hard to maintain or establish one, when constantly wrapped in an blanket of blissful indifference. Sometimes he will put the coffee machine on and let his eyes gloss over while observing the patterns of foggy steam turn to condensation and eventually paint wet streaks against the glass. He doesn’t always drink the coffee. Sometimes he will brush his teeth for a long while, looking at something located just over his shoulder in the mirror. Sometimes he will let the sense of his awakening wash over him and evaporate, as he turns sides and stays in bed for hours, until thirst becomes uncomfortable or old wounds start burning from the immobility. Sometimes he will cover himself in clothes that are not fit for the New England winter and walk for hours.

 

Today Will is walking. Catching a glimpse of his own reflection, he comes into himself with a tiny swell of smugness warming up his insides. Hannibal would not have approved of the person that is staring back at him and it is a small yet valid victory, Will decides. He doesn’t have many of these, so he toasts himself with fresh brewed coffee in a takeaway cup.

 

Will is not depressed. That is, as not-depressed as the person going by Will Graham has ever been. He has days when he is downright beaming in his indifference. As he allows his body to change form en inertia, flesh first softening, then drawing taught over bones, he relishes in the most vibrant, dazzling experiences his mind can provide. And his mind, a mind that so often fought against Will, is truly delightful in the treasure it can provide, once their mutual agreement was reached. On certain levels he can see he is acting the role of a petulant child but doesn’t matter. Because Will decided he will die and take Hannibal with him. And even the fact that the monster that has been burning his brain in cinders took this away from him once… 

 

Will pauses and looks around in casual bewilderment because his hands were strangling Hannibal and his mouth explaining their death to him, and then he wasn’t. He doesn’t recognise the street which doesn’t come as a surprise. Still within the boundaries of the city, still, stubbornly, alive. He turns around a corner, focuses his eyes at some vague point in the distance, and seamlessly slips back into his reverie. His thumbs are digging into the hollow of Hannibal’s throat, and he licks the madly fluttering beat under his jaw. He relinquishes the hold and then presses down again. Little by little he keeps strangling Hannibal. Will doesn’t get run over by a car, he can’t afford to. Because in spite of the images gleefully unfolding in his mind, there is the screeching noise of the ever-present knowledge that Hannibal is still alive, somewhere,  waiting for them to die together. And he will not disappoint. His lips curve faintly, and the resulting smile is wholly Will’s. A passer-by hurriedly crosses the street.

 

Showers are essentially maintenance-work. They are mostly performed while Will is deep in his blissful, semi-conscious state. And it is only rarely, if ever, that a sensation of the mind will creep through Will’s fortified dissociation and spill into the physical realm. He is mid-way in the process of breaking one of Hannibal’s beautiful mantelpieces, and Dr Lecter is watching him, powerless. He weighs the alabaster goddess in his arms, eroding her smooth body by crassly rubbing her against the fireplace’s crevice. There is shouts, perhaps his own. His eyes snap open as the head of the ancient goddess transforms into shards as it shatters against the wall, and he is suddenly facing the tiles of his bathroom, the heel of his hand pushing against his growing erection. Will gives himself an experimental tug, not expecting the sensation to penetrate the thick layers of cotton he built up around his brain. 

 

Still, he masturbates mechanically, a vague need of release pulsing in the distance, and his face twitches in annoyance - the pressure is distressing, not letting him return to the sweet act of deconstructing Dr Lecter’s belongings. He speeds up, cracks pushing through like atmosphere pressure in his ear canal. His tongue feels obscenely distended in his mouth, his face numb and immobile. Hannibal breathes in his ear and he is biting on his swollen tongue. “Have I not been good to you, Will?” Rubbing against his back he can feel the full detail of a tailored Italian shirt, rapidly soaking under the shower stream. The pressure in his cranium is materialised in Hannibal’s presence which engulfs him from all corners. Two hands are planted on the wall in front of him, each on either side of his head and he daren’t look up. So he cowers, curves inward, the pressure slowly liquifying him. His hand is crushing his dick, the sting of soap uncomfortable, water making the friction unbearable. Hannibal’s body presses flush against the curve of his own and he can smell his want, he feels the droplets gathering on dark blonde strands and hitting him on the shoulders. There is a growl deep inside his stomach but is not his, it is nothing but an echo. The shower runs cold for a while now (how long?) and he is shivering and he is burning, one large hand grabs his forehead and forces his head up, and he can almost make out Hannibal’s expression certainly the two eyes burning red branding him but the water spray is blinding him and he is breathing the moisture in and he is choking so he shuts his eyes and grinds his teeth and comes.

 

A few minutes later, when he is done choking and coughing on his knees, when he had his fill of punching the wall and shivering and cursing a hollow God - for not being there, for being there - his eyes suddenly hood over and the tension drains from his shoulders. Because he made peace with his brain, because he stroke a deal, his mind relents and shelters him deep, once more. Will touches the harpsichord and turns to Hannibal “This one, I burn”. Hannibal can only watch with his burning red eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

There is phone-calls, oh there is always phone-calls. There is Alana, and Jack, and consultants and doctors and reporters. It took Will longer to switch on an automatic response when he is on the phone, to no longer feel or care about the tone or the words of the person on the line. But what matters is that he got there in the end. A precious chunk of peace and autonomy. He doesn’t need to show up for his psychiatric visits, he can just call and let a stream of agreeable sentences clear any doubts about his state of mind. Absolve him of any follow-ups or mandatory visits. He will answer their calls, drift away and let his body reply convincingly and soon enough they leave him alone. The curiosity tends to fade away when hammered with impeccable normalcy. Being boring is a mine of gold that Will Graham has just discovered. He blinks the haze away and he barely catches the click of a phone call ending.

 

There is a warm sensation pooling on his thigh. He looks down. He is wearing boxers and there is a slow trickle of blood turning them red on the thigh. Tt takes some effort but he focuses and he realises he has bitten the base of his ring finger to the bone. Will holds his hand up and wipes the excess blood off. It looks like a red ring. He doesn’t allow himself to laugh at the irony of the though but he does decide on making the phone calls shorter. There is only so much that can pass through the casual inspection.

 

* * *

 

 

Still there are lucid moments; that, Will accepts, begrudgingly. He uses these suffocating moments to plan his End Game. Which is far fetched enough to requires crystalline clarity, something he begrudgingly accepted as he was drawing the deal with his mind. And it is worth it, because Will has never felt so much relief as he did the moment he committed his life to his - his, his, and his alone - End Game. The first days of consciousness after the fall… There is days when Will wants to bury the memory of those days. But the salvation and clarity that was born from that suffering is why he keeps it. He woke up burning up, the knife wound in his face burning, his lungs raw and screaming, but the physical discomfort melted away as soon as the realisation of his solitude hit him. There was a white heat in his brain that drew the promise of their last hug, face buried in a blood soaked shirt, hands cradling him tightly, lips whispering against his hair. The joyful act of eternal joining, clashing against the dreadful awareness of his failure, the dread of a singular continuous existence.

 

He spasmed and clawed and tried to chew his veins open until the restraints trapped him down. And then, in the endless hours of facing the ceiling, in various states of lethargy and grief, each heartbeat accompanied with the maddening beeping of machines, his brain locking him out, ruthlessly reminding him of the fact of his aliveness, he bargained for his solace. And as he reached the conclusion, relief washed over him like the crushing waves of an ocean that was as ruthless as it was tender, and it was conceding, and surrendering, and winning all at once. Because he just needed to fall once more. 

 

And for the first time in Will Graham’s existence, he let himself be absolved in the certainty of his demise. And he won’t forget the price he paid to get there, and he won’t let the bargain and its fulfilment ever slip away. And this, he will fulfil. He will have his reckoning. And he can see the path, not in a way he can put in words, but in a form that’s locked deep inside his muscle memory. And the elusive clarity fades away, and once again he runs his tongue over his teeth. This time he tastes Hannibal, and he turns around laughing, gutting knife jittery in his hand. Hannibal is sitting on a gurney, lifting his hospital gown up to reveal his side. He traces a path on his own flesh, using a fingertip, and Will follows eagerly.

 

* * *

 

 

It is Baltimore. Will pauses for a second, out of balance. Information hits him from every side, heaps of raw, unprocessed information flooding his startled brain. He is in Baltimore, his feet hurt and he can hear waves and smell the sea. He can practically taste the salt in his pores. Hints of fishing leftovers and crude oil. The awareness of his own vulnerability, the sole existence, stranded across an empty stretch of road along the purely lit docks. Still out of balance, Will falls inwards, forces his mind to retrace his steps, scraping together a timeline. His wallet, a train ticket stub, the faint scent on the oddly appropriate clothes he is wearing, the paper he is holding on to. A paper that is already getting soggy exposed in the humidity. Good quality paper, carefully torn from a notebook. And as he looks down he knows what he is about to see.

 

It is the drawing of a clock-face, numbers broken and misplaced like broken teeth scattered on the ground of a murder scene. And despite knowing, Will’s lungs start burning. He sucks in salty air in big gulps but his lungs are filled with something fluid and corrosive and the oxygen cannot get in. A dam is cracking somewhere behind his right temple, and the first few images are flowing in uninterrupted - the surface of water dark as ink - shattering like granite and explosives - down his windpipe burning like acid - a silhouette is floating inches from the cracked surface, suspended from the night sky, rivulets of dark red erupting from its sides - and he is no longer sure he can trap the screams inside his sticky lungs. The sides of his mouth hurt, his scar tissue is itching; Will runs his tongue, swollen and awkward, over his teeth and he can taste Hannibal. Helplessness feels a lot like vomit, or drowning.


	2. The subtle difference between the hidden and the unseen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hannibal shows up, in form or offerings.

 

Will won’t let the fandoms of his mind shelter him while making his way back to the train station. He resists their pull as he finds a place that still makes coffee, and keeps resisting as he sits on a hard plastic chair and waits out the hours - three hours and twenty-one minutes - until the first train. He keeps his mind firmly facing outwards during the ride, observing faces, scenery, the worn edges of the seat in front of him.

 

This amount of wakefulness feels foreign, and he is drained by the time he unlocks the door. Not his house in Wolf Trap, or the place he shared with Molly, but an anonymous apartment in Alexandria.

 

Will fights the urge to collapse within himself and goes straight to the bedside table. A ready made utilitarian block of wood, with a single drawer. And in there, the stack of poorly concealed evidence.

 

There is nothing in the drawer but a dozen of unopened letters, and a small pile of used train tickets to Baltimore. Will fingers through them, words flashing in his mind “Thursday”, “4.02pm”.

 

He doesn’t need to make any calculations in his head. This is a trip he has made before, oftentimes for the same reason. He would have arrived in Baltimore before 6, giving him plenty of time to…

 

There is the edge of a grimace threatening to pull his still raw scar in two. “At least”, Will announces to no one, “I have kept up with my therapy”.

 

* * *

 

 

During the next few days, there are moments of sleep, and moments of wakefulness, and a myriad of moments in between. There is a moment when Will is awake and attempts half-heartedly to analyse his situation, but then his lungs are burning and his mind helpfully suggests that he deserves a long lay-in for all that transpired and the next moment

 

Hannibal is standing in front of him and the air between them has a cold, cutting quality. Will tries to invoke the anger that has been holding him afoot for all these months and he finds nothing but the deflated shell of it, as if all the fire he felt was a balloon that someone popped while he wasn’t paying attention. 

 

And there is nothing more dangerous in this world than facing Hannibal Lecter unprepared.

 

Somewhere in the distance, a phone rings.

 

Hannibal’s nostrils widen, as if he can smell the change in him. He _can_ smell the change in him.

 

“My dear Will, is that all?” he takes a step forwards and Will stiffens; he rarely moves in his mind. This is not the way he made him.

 

“No more gutting knifes, no more harpsichords to burn?” he is so close he can see the obnoxious stitching on his leather shoes. They stop mere inches from his naked feet. He is cold.

 

“No more cliffs” he breathes down his face. It is not a question.

 

Will finds the task of raising his head to meet Hannibal’s stare taxing. His eyes burn like he hasn’t slept in days. The thought occurs to him, he has no valid proof he has slept in days. It takes everything he has to not react to whatever he finds reflected in the good doctor’s face.

 

“This was not the bargain” his voice is cracking. His voice hasn’t cracked in months. “This was not the bargain” he is staring in Hannibal, he is staring through Hannibal, demanding his mind to transform this scene into an agreeable scenario of gore or anger or physical release but the man in front of him is as tangible as a pile of used train tickets. 

 

Hannibal moves and it is fast and inevitable as always and there is no blade in their hands. And so Will ends up cradled against the Ripper’s chest, one arm supporting him around the waist, one hand trying to make sense of the knotted despair of his hair.

 

Will’s body tried to reject this parody of a hug, the hold that mimics their fall so intimately. “Don’t”

 

“Shh, be silent Will” and there it is, the heady mix of Hannibal’s unique accent and the obscene softness. “I need you to wake up”. He lets a sliver of space between them, just enough to trace Will’s hollow cheekbone, daring enough to look concerned. “Please”.

 

And then the absurdity hits Will like a punch in the guts and he pushes free of the Cannibal, and he is fitting in coughing laughter.

 

When he finally opens his eyes, strings of saliva caught in his beard, he is grabbing Hannibal’s arm for balance. He sinks in his fingers in tight muscle as deep as possible and extends his body to his full height.

 

Meeting the other’s gaze, ignoring the ache or the mimicry of ache in brown eyes, Will spits out “Fuck you”.

 

The phone is still ringing.

 

* * *

 

 

There are flashes of sensory input. He can hear the wet, scrapping sound of something being… dragged? Crushed?

 

He can make out car lights, some of them terribly bright.

 

There is a sickly sweet smell.

 

Wet, smacking wet.

 

His hair feels wet.

 

His joints ache.

 

The dizziness comes and goes in spells.

 

Will feels wetness on the outside of his thigh.

 

Someone is talking to him. It is an annoyance and he tries to swap the voice away like a fly, but his hand is full.

 

Will looks down at the slick wet garbage bag he is dragging at his side, then back up to the cop in the police car, and he freezes.

 

“Sir, will you please open the bag” and Will knows he can say no, he should say no, but it is a sense of morbid curiosity that forces his hand open, and the bag falls open with a sickly smack.

 

They are all staring at the still warm, severed head of a stag. The antlers have scratched Will’s thigh raw, blood trailing as far as he can see on the road behind them.

 

He bites back a wave of laughter - he is walking down the road to Wolf Trap, Virginia, and the godless irony is choking him.

 

After that spike of forced clarity it becomes easier to negotiate his prerogative. “Yes, I have sleep-walked before” and “Yes, I do have a therapist” and “Her name is Alana Bloom” reciting her number, and the inevitable awkward ride to the nearest hospital.

 

The talk with Alana has been a long time coming. Will is teetering on the edge of his mind, rationalising ways to avoid or minimise exposure. And then he can make out the distant thudding of a cane, and he is awakened to the inevitability of his situation. “Hi Will. How have you been?” she smiles, taking in his evaporated physique. They were both keenly aware that she was not going to make this easy for him.

 

Approximately fifteen minutes in, Will Graham attempts to apologise. He fumbles with the words and he ends up with a “Sorry about, coming all the way to… here. And, everything” and because he is Will he ends the sentence with a self-deprecating grin, as if the idea of everything in the world being his fault is somehow a matter of fact.

 

Years ago, this would have played straight into Alana’s heart strings.

 

But this is now, and at this point Alana, who was rudely awoken by police calling her about Will and a stag head, who had to miss her son’s school run, and had to tolerate 15 minutes of Will beating around the bush, is not feeling magnanimous. “Will, I was in love with him too.” So much for subtlety.

 

Will slips. “But I knew who he was.” 

 

She smiles, cutting “And you tried to stop him, you tried to kill him for it. End this one and for all. More than once, if I might add” she reached for his hand, warm fingers tight on his palms, a calculated kindness to soften the blow “and you came the closest than any of us to succeeding”. 

 

Will retreated “But not close enough”. 

 

He is aware of how clammy his palms are. It is harder and harder to keep her gaze, so he looks out of the window. He smiles but it is not a smile, not really “It has to end”.

 

He expects an argument, or rationalising, but instead “What are you thinking about Will?”

 

A beat passes them by, him staring out of the window, her staring at him. And then he leans forwards, way more languidly than he intended. His tone is light and conspiratory “To be perfectly honest I am currently torn between self immolation and burying us alive. Since he, I mean we, survived air and water…”

 

It comes off cheeky. Gleeful He has the guts to sound vaguely excited. And then Alana laughs, abruptly. She is almost incredulous that he expected her, what, to plead for their lives with him?

 

Her every word is pronounced cleanly “Will… whatever you do next, just make sure he stays dead this time, won’t you?”

 

They are staring at each other. And he suddenly remembers that he knew her in another lifetime, before Hannibal shared her bed, before he threw her from a window crushing her innocence, before she plotted his death, before she became a mother.

 

He looks at her, really looks, for what feels like the first time in years, and he reads the lines around her mouth and the edge in her eyes and the sleepless nights in the bruises around them, and sees in her face all the powerful dynamics (and the one person making the storm rage and crush around them) that pulled at her soft strength and turned it into hatred that burned itself into righteousness and fear and fierce protectiveness.

 

Will speaks then “He promised to come for you” and “you have a family now”.

 

She nods.

 

He lets his shoulders fall. He is not sure how long they have been talking but it feels like hours “I am tired of fighting him”

 

She raises an eyebrow “I don’t believe you Will. I am sorry, but I can’t believe this.” He looks at her from under heavy lashes. It is not a pleasant expression. 

 

“I have seen you together Will. And I have seen you apart When he came looking for you, to rescue you. When he was waiting for you to come visit him, and you did not. When you woke up in the hospital, your screams”

 

Will is shaking his head, eyes closed. Her voice continues, nevertheless “You feed off of this. Both of you. Whatever ‘this’ is. And you are not tired of fighting him, you are tired of waiting for the fight to start once more” she sounds out of breath. Her cheeks are red and her eyes are gleaming. For a second Will wants to ask which battle she is yearning for, but his head is heavy and his throat is raw.

 

“That might be” they sit in silence until Alana leaves, wishing him luck. He remains sitting for a long minutes after, letting his mind drift in nothingness, alongside the sun setting over the mountains.

 

* * *

 

 

He checks himself out late that night, begrudgingly inconveniencing the doctor that suggested a psych eval. There is nothing more to do, so he goes.

 

The stag head is nowhere to be found.

 

He won't let himself think.

 

He unlocks the door, partly intrigued he locked it in whichever state he was as he left. A phone rings in another apartment and then something clicks.

 

Will picks up his phone, it is there, inconspicuous, next to his wallet and two train tickets.

 

It is a simple smartphone that Jack forced on him on the day of his discharge. A condition of said discharge. An umbilical cord to the outside world. Jack’s cautious ear into his life.

 

He scrolls through the call logs. There is not many of them, so he finds what he is looking for in barely a heartbeat.

 

‘Hannibal’ Last night, 6.08pm

‘Hannibal’ the night before, 7.30pm

and the night before

and the night before that

 

Hiding in plain sight.

 

Will laughs. Hannibal had always been such an absurdist, the reckless bastard. 


	3. On the way home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will has an appointment to keep. The details might be hazy but. There is an appointment to be kept.

_ So tell me Will. Are you angry at me for being the Ripper, or angry at yourself for realising it hasn’t prevented you from enjoying our friendship? _

Hannibal has to splay his thighs wide and dip his head low to catch Will's downcast gaze. There is a tiny flicker of annoyance at the implied inattention.

_ Even now, you hold your sense of morality to too high a standard. And I find myself concerned that it has been drowning you, Will. _

 

* * *

There is an alarm going off, briefly mistaken for the phone ringing. The moment of hazy panic has rendered Will wide awake, as was the intended result.

He runs a hand over his hair, overgrown. Maybe there is enough time for a haircut. And then he trails the end of the curls down to his face, in curious inspection. Lined forehead that leads to hooded eyes twitching against his fingers, chapped lips that sting against his touch. Tufts of beard, rough, too long; dry skin, precariously close to snapping by the day. 

Inevitably, the memory of the first day of his resumed therapy with Doctor Lecter starts playing. Remembers how elaborately he prepared his body, chose his clothes, combed back his hair, steeled his mind. The debut of his new-found resolve, that was the day Will presented himself to the hunter as a fisher reborn.

A magnificent performance, one that he followed up by letting his mind get seduced once more. This time it was in full awareness of the extend of the crimes of the villain sitting on his therapist’s chair. And as the curtains fell, Will bowed out, gutted, the irony not lost in him. 

He presses his palms against closed eyes, hard, until stars explode in the darkness, and decides, unanimously, against a haircut.

 

* * *

_ Quid pro quo. An answer for an answer. _

_ I know you are angry about the cliff. I wouldn't expect otherwise. However, I did not let us survive the fall due to misplaced ego or lack of regard towards your wishes. Selfishly, perhaps, I could not surrender to the image of you disappearing under the surface. I believed I could, but my reaction to that sight surprised even me. _

Quid pro quo. Will's head raises an inch before he can catch himself.

_ Not at that moment, of all moments. Not when we had just gotten merely taste of all that could be. This would have been too much to ask for, even if the one doing the asking was you. _

 

* * *

There is a fervent dullness enveloping his senses as he makes his way to the station. He watches the pavement disappear under his feet feeling propelled by forces unseen, like an arrow released from a bow, flying within his pre-determined trajectory.

There is humans around him but it is merely a fact. Will realises he can observe the ebb and flow of the city moving around him without getting the insides of his minds scratched. The eyes of the passer-by register, yet ostensibly stay surface-deep; the slices of their lives, their migraines and petty quarrels, their worries and phobias don’t penetrate deeper.

Eyes half shut he lets the sensations wash over him. He revels in the dulled awareness of commuters passing him by, the cold gust of wind soothing.

There are whispers in the wind.

The next time Will looks up he is standing at the end of a poorly lit corridor. The door in front of him -304, fake gold numbers- is not closed, a rectangular beam of light projected on the floor, touching his shoes.

Hannibal’s voice reaches him from the other side of the door.

“Do let yourself in, Will. I shall be done setting up in a moment”


	4. The destination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal’s voice reaches him from the other side of the door. “Do let yourself in, Will. I shall be done setting up in a moment”

Will lets his eyes take in the cold hues of an elongated living room and the wall that should have once separated from the, now open-plan, kitchen. He feels drunk for a second - the minimal, cold-hued space that welcomes him is a stark antithesis to warmly lit, baroque office that Hannibal once occupied, so far away now. And at the same time, the presence of the Doctor is suffocating, each visual cue a crass elegy to Hannibal’s aesthetic sensitivities, a palpable indication of just what their Fall had costed him.

The life of the unlucky previous resident of the apartment has been now reduced to nothing but tendrils. A few torn pages of magazines for the open cans of paint to stand on, a gutted skeleton of a chair, a sanded down ottoman; existing only to support what can only be described as Hannibal’s new art project. A wall has been brought down, and the resulting materials used as plinths for the odd decoration and house an impromptu bookcase, the likes of which high-end New York designers would sign lucrative contracts for.

Two functional chairs that might have been leather once, facing each other. A low, whitewashed table, bridging the gap in between.

A tremble at the arrangement of the notes.

Will observes the space in front of him, amused, the sole spectator of a vaudeville performance. A performance staged for him and no one but.

Hannibal hasn't looked up. “I trust you got my,” brief pause, “letter”.

Will can see, not imagine but see, a flash of a broken clock face. Absurdity and familiarity mingle together - he has been here before, that now is a foregone conclusion - and he has to blink invisible glass from his eyes.

“Will" Hannibal is now looking at him "Please, have a seat.”

The soft dullness mercifully holds and he sits mechanically, trying not to pay attention to how familiar the creek of leather feels behind his spine.

And then Hannibal is approaching, holding a tray.

“My dear Will.”

Clumsily - and Will has to summon all the numbness of death to choke back a scream, _clumsy_ is not a word becoming of Hannibal - he bends his body to place the tray on the table. There is no attempt to hide the roughness of his movements. Right knee, hip, maybe spine, the analytical part of Will’s brain offers.

“Before we begin, I have been experimenting with some new flavours” Hannibal offers conversationally, holding the stem of a glass up to the light. Will's eyes automatically follow the swirl of thick, rich liquid, oranges and reds shimmering and sparkling in the cold light.

“Apple, for sweetness, pomegranate and the milk of almonds, soaked overnight” Hannibal recites, half kneeling at Will’s side.

“Ginger flakes for digestion, beetroot pulp, and a touch of manuka honey to soften the sharpness”, and his hand cups around the back of Will’s neck, tilting his head upwards. Bringing the glass to Will's lips he tilts gently and the sweet communion trickles into his mouth and the flavours and colours are filling his senses to the brim and there is nothing to do but accept.

By the time Will realises that Hannibal's thumb is rubbing circles on his nape, the glass is empty.

“That's it Will”, encouragingly, and the a fraction lower “Truly, you delight in having me worry” eyes holding his before standing up. Heavily, taking seconds longer than he once would.

But Will doesn’t move. The self imposed numbness stays firm and he observes Hannibal’s finger reaching, wiping a drop of juice from his lower lip. Pressing down, for longer than necessary until Will’s lips part and he is touching his teeth.

“Yes... How you delight in making me worry” softly, then Hannibal is moving fast. Reaching for something from the tray and back to Will. With well-practiced touches and tugs he rolls a sleeve up, extends the arm, finds the vein.

A sting and the burn of an injection. There is a curve in Hannibal’s lips. “I would much rather feed them to you” a pointed pause “but this will have to do for now”.

The next sting is ever so slightly sharper, elongated, and there is a concentrated burn as the acidic vitamins enter his bloodstream. “Please indulge me a little longer, one more to go”.

Will watches the last syringe penetrating the soft meat of his forearm. The needle retreats, leaving behind a pinprick to join a small constellation of tiny dots.

_ How long  _ Don't think.

Hannibal runs a wet tissue - the hospital smell strong, some kind of antiseptic wipe - up and down the afflicted arm. Will could smile at the overkill. But then again Doctor Lecter has always been all but thorough in his treatments of Will.

“All done Will. Thank you for putting up with me” the Doctor smiles, half grimace half apology, and moves to put away the tray. Will follows the crooked line of Hannibal's back as he walks to the kitchen counter. A last glass of something, a vaguely yellow liquid, remains on the table.

Both seated now. “Where shall we begin today?” the lack of answers hasn't seemed to phase him yet. “I have started working on the kitchen” Hannibal offers with a gracious tilt of his chin.

“The plumping was less than satisfactory, and the arrangement of the hobs simply unreasonable” a sigh, some shifting. “Pulling parts of the house apart and finding new ways to fit them together, to make them work” an casual nod at his makeshift bookcase “has proven unexpectedly fulfilling”.

This is where Will would reprimand him for his liberal, unapologetic use of metaphors. " _Is this what you see? Am I a broken faucet to you, Hannibal?_ " he would have exhaled, equal measured of mirth and tension. But this Will, that fell, watches on. Hannibal shifts slightly, rearranging his limbs on the chair. Will can’t remember the doctor -shifting- before, that would be far too human like. And then his brain pauses. It is the knee, and yes, definitely the back too.

“The impermanence of… my current arrangements. The impermanence of structures we tend to consider solid, walls, wirings, pipes” a curved smile “And yes, I dare admit it made me feel at times closer to you”.

Will lets the words wash over him, or rather he doesn't make the decision. The numbness settles firmly, a solid buffer placed somewhere between present and pain. There is a distinct buzzing noise that is building up inside his ears. _Buzzards_.

And then Hannibal's tone raises abruptly and cuts through the numbness like a scalpel “Will, where are you. Right. Now”

It takes less than two seconds for Will to arrive with absolute clarity to a single conclusion, as his brain opens its tight holds and pours all his past answers at once, leaving him drenched to the bone. Hannibal knows.

Because this time he has been present.  But against all better judgement, he is replying “I am waiting outside your office”.

“Do I open the door for you?” Hannibal betrays no emotion. If he has any.

“Yes. You look surprised and I revel in it. You say, **hello Will** , and I reply, **can I come in**?”

Hannibal’s even voice feels the natural pause of Will’s narration and penetrates through it, with the certainty of experience “ **Do you intend to point a gun at me?** ”

“I reply, **not tonight** , and I walk in. You follow me inside. I ask, **are you expecting someone?** ” this time Will pauses longer, eager to throw the rhythm of, eager for Hannibal to not lose the rhythm.

“ **Only you** ” there is a faint breathiness in these two words.

Will nods, empty-eyed approval “ **You kept my standing appointment open** ”

“ **And you are right on time** ”

The pause is longer yet. Somewhere a clock is ticking, marking the seconds, and Hannibal continues with lines that weren’t his “ **I have to deal with you, and my feelings about you. I think it’s best if I do that directly.** ”

“Stop” Will’s body is taught, drawn face in a scowl. The shaking that had been rumbling under the surface since the night in the docks is fighting its way to his fingers. “I know how it ends” he spits.

Hannibal stops. They sit as silence settles around them. In the absence of words the shaking in Will is gone, sated by Hannibal's obedience.

The hand is back, cupping his throat, movements so slow that make him ache. The yellow liquid passes down his throat, a pleasant note of elderberries. Hannibal lowers the glass but keeps Will head tilted back, pinned, the column of his throat exposed fully. The gaze is bare and Will allows it to carry on and on, seemingly endlessly.

“There is a part of me that will miss you forever” Hannibal casually comments, and it is unclear whom he is referring to. To Will, the words are drops of elderberry tea, stinging against his eye.

* * *

 

The hour is up.

Hannibal, the ever gracious host, walks him to the door, repeating an open invitation. “You will allow me this, Will” there is a command naked in his voice, rendered void by the audible breathlessness. They are so close, Will can feel the soft huffs of Hannibal’s breath warming the back of his neck. He fishes the memory _Won't you join me for dinner Will._  He looks down at his hand and sure enough he is clutching the tickets for the train that will deliver him to Hannibal's door. For dinner.

Hannibal reaches a hand around Will to open the door for him, but he hold on to the doorknob instead, effectively trapping Will between solid wood and his body “They say, after all, that the best way to a man’s heart is through his stomach”.

The bad joke catches Will so utterly unprepared, his mouth moving on its own accord “There is no need to tell you, Hannibal, but the best way to my heart is between my fourth and fifth rib.” Will turns his head sideways to leer at Hannibal though he already knows the effect of his words without having to look. A smile of a rueful past twists the itchy scar on his cheek “My apologies, Doctor. Gallows humour”

“I would hope not”. The reply is so very quiet, but with nothing but a few molecules of air between them, Will can feel the very vibrations of the Hannibal's words, wants, thoughts.

Hannibal releases the door then, and Will stumbles more than walks through the doorway, down the corridor,

* * *

He has already unlocked his apartment's door and is removing his scarf, when Will becomes aware once more of the two tickets he is still holding on. He reads the printed date; it is tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Dinner will be served, and meat is most definitely on the menu (but don't try to feed a starved man a steak)

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks for making it through this mess! The choppy narration follows Will's mental state and it is not... entirely reliable. But please don't tell Will, spoilers, spoilers!
> 
> If you managed to get this far, the next chapter will definitely be more rewarding. Escalate fast, oh they do, don't they?


End file.
